Ravenscroft Academy
by anonsensicalgirl
Summary: Violet Hunter, now the headmistress of the illustrious Ravenscroft Academy, is thrust into another adventure when an oddly familiar figure appears on her doorstep. A sequel to my previous story, "The Private Journal of Violet Hunter." *NOW COMPLETE*
1. Chapter 1

_I'm back! This is a sequel to my previous story, "The Private Journal of Violet Hunter" and takes place shortly before "The Empty House" in the Holmes canon. Also, I apologize- this story's beginning is a bit more depressing than I had intended! But don't worry; it gets better :)_

 _Again, all recognizable characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle._

 ** _Chapter One_**

 _"My friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of his problems..."_

Dr. Watson wrote this line about The Great Detective in reference to myself; while I am flattered at the good doctor's disappointment, no woman likes to be so utterly forgotten. Not that it surprised me: Sherlock Holmes is not, and has never been, one to let a woman in his life. But it is a little deflating to one's ego to see it stately so plainly in print, especially when one has never had a "conquest" to think of. (The vicar's son who proposed me when we were five most certainly does not count)

But despite my friendship with the Doctor's wife, I did not hear word from the detective himself. Not, I realize, that he had much time to. He was far too busy untangling the web of crime spun by none other than the infamous Professor Moriarty, and I was thrust into all the responsibilities and duties of a private school headmistress and part-time government agent. The closest I ever came to contacting the man was through his brother, Mycroft, when I came across certain little hints helpful to his investigation of the "Napoleon of Crime."

Still, it was a shock to learn of Mr. Holmes's death. When I first heard the news, I felt the air leave my lungs and I had to sit down. Memories of the year before swept over me, and I grieved for this man I barely knew. I mourned the loss of his genius and his mind, and I knew that England had lost one of her finest.

But nearly three years had passed since then, and my mind was filled with sorrow for another death, one that struck much closer to my heart.

"How was the funeral, Miss Hunter?" My secretary, Adeline Bower, asked as I slipped my coat off in the front entry hall of the school. I swallowed. "It was nice."

Nice. Such an innocuous word used to describe everything, fitting or not. Here it was an especial misnomer. The time spent gathered around the grave of Mary Morstan Watson and her stillborn child was the worst morning I had spent since the death of my parents fifteen years before.

"I think I'll turn in early for the night."

Adeline understood, and I quickly climbed the stairs, hoping I wouldn't pass any of the students in the hall. Safely escaping to my room, I shut the door and leaned against it, tears finally falling from my eyes. The bite of Mary's death stung even more due to the joy that had preceded it. I knew how Mary and her husband had longed for a child, and the expectation of a new life had been a balm for Dr. Watson in the wake of his closest friend's death. My tears came again, this time for the doctor. To lose his best friend and his wife—and child—within so short a time was unbearable.

Taking a steadying breath (though still shaky) I tried not to look at the drawer of my dressing table, which contained all of Mary's sprightly letters of ecstatic anticipation. _He's to be christened Sherlock if he's boy…it's such an odd name, but it seems fitting. We haven't decided on a girl's name yet. What do you think of Charlotte? I've wanted a daughter named Charlotte ever since I was a girl, but John favors the name Elizabeth…_

I silenced the echo of Mary's voice in my head and threw my coat on the bed. Unwinding my scarf, I sat down at my dressing table and stared at myself in the mirror. My multitude of freckles stood out in sharp contrast to the pallor of my skin, and my nose was red from the early November cold. I pulled out the pins in my bun and let my chestnut-hued hair unwind and fall. In the four years since I'd chopped it off in the case Dr. Watson had titled "The Copper Beeches" it had grown back to its former length, for which I was thankful. It was the only thing about me that could be considered truly beautiful, and I allowed myself the one vanity of my striking hair.

I abruptly stood and, almost angrily, tore off my clothing to dress for bed. In my haste, I tangled the tie of my dressing gown and it unreasonably frustrated me to the point that I felt my eyes water. I stopped my movement and took a few deep breaths to steady myself. But irritation had replaced sadness in my emotional state of being. I was angry that Mary had to die, I was angry that Mr. Holmes had to die and leave poor Dr. Watson all alone. I was angry I had allowed myself to become attached to Mrs. Watson, and, at the moment, I was mostly angry that I was so terribly inept at making friends that I didn't have anyone else to cling to and confide in now that she was gone.

The next morning I awoke early. I'd finally fallen asleep sometime around midnight, comforted by the hot tea one of the maids brought me and the pages of my Bible. Others might have found the words of Ecclesiastes baffling or cynical; I, personally, had always found solace there.

But my day had to begin, which included meeting all of the students downstairs for breakfast and then giving them their morning address.

I looked in on Miss Bower before going to teach my mathematics class; aside from my other duties, I still tried to teach a class or two each term, and mathematics was usually my first choice. She was in her small office, scheduling appointments and tallying up the pay for the Academy's employees. With the yuletide holidays approaching, I made sure that each of the teachers received a generous bonus for Christmas. Despite her often naiveté, I knew my secretary was trustworthy and capable enough to see her work through.

Adeline Bower was a nice girl, a former charity student of the academy who'd graduated the year after I'd become headmistress. Despite the fact that there was only a nine-year age gap between us, she was still very much the student to my teacher, and if our relationship did not mirror that of a mother and daughter, I was at the very least like her very-much-older sister. My own age (I was still under thirty, at least for a few more months) had caused many raised brows when I'd been given the position. For that reason, I'd had to put away any girlish foolishness I might have still had for the sake of my livelihood, and after a year or so as the head of the school, no one seemed to entertain any thought that I was unqualified for the position. Granted, my other occupation for Mycroft Holmes also matured me, given the grave yet often tedious work I was assigned to do. Every once in a while I'd be granted an opportunity to do something a bit more cloak-and-dagger, but most of my assignments saw me in my room, decrypting codes from various networks.

I didn't have much time for socializing, even if I'd wished to. I kept myself abreast of the news via newspapers and magazines, but I rarely left the Academy. It had, in essence, become my entire world.

"Good morning, class," I greeted the half-dozen third-year students.

"Good morning, Miss Hunter," the chorused, and I smiled. Despite my complaining of the work and monotony, I loved teaching. And for now, it would help heal me and distract me from the pain of the previous day.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Chapter Two_**

The next few weeks passed in a blur. Most of the students were leaving us for the winter holidays, and my time—when I wasn't teaching—was spent handling the logistics of thirty-seven girls' train rides, parents' arrivals, and losing most of my other employees and teachers as they, too, were "off" for Christmastide.

As usual, there were some students who were left to spend Christmas at the Academy. Actually, I realized as I looked over my list of students, only three would be staying behind. Often there were at least five or six.

"Miss Hunter?" Adeline inquired.

I looked up. "Yes?"

"Should I ready the arrangements for Sir Adrian's visit tomorrow? And what do I do about Monsieur Etienne? He has a cold and won't be able to teach tomorrow, and you _know_ how concerned the parents are about the quality of our French teaching."

"Have Miss Carswell take the French if Monsieur is unable; her accent is flawless." Sir Adrian Barrymore was touring the school tomorrow with his daughter's education in mind, and Adeline was frazzled. She had a tendency to become stressed whenever it came to outsiders touring the school, and I knew it was because she was afraid of her own incompetence. The trustees of the school had given her an education for free, and I knew she constantly was attempting to "pay it back." She turned to leave.

"And Adeline?" I stopped her. "Stop worrying. You're doing fine." I smiled kindly at her, and then went to teach my last class of the day.

The highest level math was filled with girls I'd known my entire four-year run as headmistress of Ravenscroft Academy, the oldest being one of our charity students, eighteen-year-old Natasha Prior, and the youngest being fifteen-year-old Rosalie Macaulay, the Indian-born daughter of a British military man and his wife. Both of them, incidentally, were two of the students who would be staying behind over the holiday. Natasha was an orphan, and Rosalie's family too far away for either one of them to make the long trip.

Before I could even begin, Rosalie raised her hand, and I tried not to sigh. She was far too intelligent for her age—thus her placement in a higher class—but she was also the prissiest, most frivolous girl in the school by far.

"Yes, Rosalie?"

"Miss Hunter, don't you think the high maths are a little useless for us?"

"Excuse me?" I asked in disbelief, amazed at her direct questioning of my authority in front of the class.

"Well, if all we're going to do is to get married one day, what's the point of algebra and geometry?" She said the last word with especial disdain: Rosalie despised geometry.

"Miss Macaulay, why would you expect such a thing?" I said with what I hoped was devastating delivery. "Arithmetic is something to be used in daily life, whether you're married or not. If married, you would be required to keep charge of the household accounts, would you not? And as the wife of a prominent individual, you would need a basic knowledge of geometric principles, I'm sure. You plan on marrying, do you, Rosalie?"

"Of course!" She said forcefully.

I caught Natasha's effort to keep from rolling her eyes. She halfway succeeded.

"What if you were planning a grand ball?" I asked, knowing it was correct question for Rosalie's interests. "You'd need to decorate, wouldn't you?" I turned to the blackboard and began a simple drawing to illustrate my point. "You have a column on the far side of the ballroom about—oh, fifteen feet high. There is an identical column on the opposite side of the room, and you wish to hang a banner between them, but…"

I heard Rosalie groan, and I tried not to smirk. "…the chandelier hangs low enough to set the fabric on fire if raised too high. The chandelier hangs three feet from the ceiling, and the room is fifteen feet—the same height as the columns…." I continued my problem, finding myself back in the familiar and comfortable world of mathematics, even amid the foreign land of ball décor. I didn't mention how an unmarried woman might use arithmetic. They already knew about the option of teaching, and I wasn't going to enlighten them on the subject of governmental espionage.

However, I regained control of my lesson and classroom, so there was some satisfaction for small victories.

That night, I checked all the rooms at eight-thirty, as was my habit. Most of the younger girls were abed, although I confiscated an issue of the _Strand_ from Georgie Urswick after I found her reading a Sherlock Holmes adventure under the bedcovers. I felt something akin to panic as I grabbed it before realizing that the issue was an older one—"The Beryl Coronet"—and not one that chronicled my own case. Of course, Dr. Watson used changed names* to "protect the innocent" for his contributions to the _Strand,_ but one could draw their own conclusions to the identities of the parties involved if they tried. Normally, this would not bother me, but I didn't wish for my students to grasp this information. I'd never hear the end of their questions, and sometimes it's best for students not to delve too deeply into their teacher's personal lives.

And, of course, I was not sure crime literature was appropriate for an eleven-year-old anyway.

I gave one last reminder to the older girls, who I did not require to retire until nine, and then went down stairs to make sure Mr. Fredericks had locked all of the doors for the night.

When I finally retired for the night, nervousness about Sir Adrian's visit suddenly accosted me. Why, I didn't know— I'd handled many parents of prospective students over the years, and while I was probably not the most beautiful or charming of hostesses, I was straightforward and welcoming. Or, at least I tried to be.

I began the next day with my usual duties, saw the girls off to their classes, and then checked my timepiece. Sir Adrian Barrymore was set to arrive within the hour. Miss Gregory would handle my maths class for me that morning while I devoted my time to his tour of the school.

Sir Adrian was a portly gentleman, and older than I thought he would be. His wrinkles, gray hair, and reddened eyes pointed to an age of sixty or so, and his raspy voice made me suspect he either had health problems or a smoking habit. Or both. He said his daughter was thirteen, and with this in mind I gave him the grand tour, taking special pains to show him classes in progress and the rooming arrangements.

"Our usual practice for girls of her age is three girls to a room," I said, leading him down the hall, "but we do have options for private suites, as well. At an extra cost, of course."

Sir Adrian nodded.

 _Odd,_ I thought _, that he didn't ask about the French._ Our school was also known for its instruction in the "womanly arts" and deportment, something many parents were keen on, given the fact that most of these girls were to be groomed for advantageous marriages. I frowned slightly. Sir Adrian hadn't asked about that, either. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye as he examined the bedroom.

"Shall we retire to my office?" I asked, my voice sweet and obliging. "Or would you like to see anything specific again?"

"No, no, my dear young lady. I think I have seen what I needed to."

 _Yes_ , I thought. He had. His eyes had been moving quickly around the rooms under my supervision. I stiffened before leading him down into the hall to my office, where I sat down behind my desk. Sir Adrian's bulk creaked in the chair across from me.

"A marvelous institution, Miss Hunter. Marvelous indeed."

"Yes," I said, smiling. "Now, would you like to discuss financials, or shall we dive into the real reason that you're here?"

"My dear Miss Hunter, why would you think I was here for anything but my daughter's education?" the look in his eye was in inscrutable.

"I have seen parents of all sorts through these walls, Sir Adrian, but rare indeed is the parent who shows such a decided lack of knowledge of his daughter's needs," told him. "Granted, I _have_ met your equal in that regard, and it could be excused by the unfortunate fact that many fathers take little interest in their children, especially daughters. But your survey of the grounds and rooms?" I raised a brow. "You were clearly examining possible entrances and exits—not the drapery. And I have never met any prospective patron who was so overwhelmingly interested in the state of our pipes and the rotation of the maids. Either your daughter—if she indeed exists—is such a hoyden that you wish to make sure she is securely contained, or you are here for some other purpose."

To my surprise, the man in front of me laughed—not a laugh I would have suspected Barrymore to have. The sound was oddly familiar, but I couldn't place it.

"Oh, Miss Hunter," he said gleefully, the rasp in his voice gone. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me."

I narrowed my eyes. "I'm not sure I follow."

"Ah, I perhaps I set my expectations too high then, if you find me so unrecognizable."

He didn't finish his sentence before I got a good look into his eyes and gasped. " _You_!" The word came out in a hushed shriek. "But you're _dead_!"

* * *

 _*I know, I know- I'm using the original names from Watson's stories, so technically the name "Violet Hunter" itself would be an alias. So let us pretend that in-world different names were used. Mostly for my own sanity and the reader's clarification._

 _**You may recognize a few of my name choices…Natasha is named after Natasha Richardson, who played Violet Hunter in the Granada adaptation of_ The Copper Beeches _, while Rosalie is named for Rosalie Williams, who portrayed Mrs. Hudson in the same series. Sir Adrian Barrymore is a nod to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's son Adrian, who wrote several Holmes stories of his own, and John Barrymore, who portrayed the Great Detective on-screen in the twenties._


	3. Chapter 3

**_Chapter Three_**

The man in front of me had disguised himself well, or else he'd aged twenty years and put on about twice that many pounds in the last four years since I'd seen him.

" _You_." I repeated. My mouth opened and I gaped at him. Very unprofessional. But then, one does not expect to see a man three years dead in their office.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, Miss Hunter, but I'm very much alive. Your skills of observation on that part are sadly lacking. "

At his words, I was sorely tempted to throw the tabletop vase at the Sherlock Holmes—the very _alive_ Sherlock Holmes—across from me.

"Does Dr. Watson know?" I asked.

A shadow passed over Mr. Holmes face. It was gone so quickly I almost thought I had imagined it. "No, not yet."

"But he thinks you're dead!" I said, standing. "By all that's sacred, do you know what your death _did_ to him?"

"I'll thank you to trust my judgement on the matter, Miss Hunter. No one could know of my survival, not even him." His face was without any trace of emotion—so lacking in any feeling that I knew it was covering up a great deal of it. I did not press, and besides, my mind was still trying to grasp what had just occurred. Sherlock Holmes was alive. He was in my school. And Dr. Watson didn't know about him, but I did. Which meant that I was being told for some particular purpose, and it was not likely to be a good one.

"Why are you here?" I asked, reverting to the professional distance I'd cultivated over the years.

"Lord George Urswick." He said.

I blinked. "Georgie's father?"

"Ah, so the child is named for him. I'm not surprised. You may have met the man?"

"Once," I said, my mouth curling in distaste. "When I said I'd met your equal as far as fatherly affection goes, I had him in mind. I doubt if the man would even remember his daughter's existence were it not for the bills I send him. He's not even having her home for Christmas!" That statement left my mouth somewhat bitterly, and I regretted it.

"I know. That, Miss Hunter, is why I'm here."

I swallowed, as my mind tried to scramble over his statement. There was no earthly way that Sherlock Holmes had just come back from the dead because some MP was neglecting his daughter at Christmastime. "Tell me everything." I heard myself saying as I sat down.

He sat back in his chair. "After your years working for Mycroft you have no doubt realized just how fragile the whole of our society is. One small action can cause an incident that can cause another action until the consequences race out of control and tumble an empire. Regimes and governments can hang upon one small, seemingly inconsequential person. And in this case, that person is young Miss Urswick." At my questioning glance, he continued, "You may have heard of Sebastian Moran? Not a well-known name by any means, but as you've assisted Mycroft and I in the matter of Moriarity—"

"Yes, the name does sound familiar. Didn't he work for Moriarity?"

"He was his right hand man, and is currently the most dangerous one left of Moriarity's gang. I assume you've been kept abreast of the news circulating in the political spheres?" At my nod, he continued, "Lord Urswick holds great influence in the House of Lords, and with his deciding vote, if one were to hold some sort of sway over him…"

I was beginning, just beginning, to piece together the ramifications of his words. "Georgie," I whispered. "She's in danger, isn't she?"

"We do have evidence that Moran is planning some sort of abduction."

"But the ransom will not be monetary," I said, my words a statement rather than a question.

"No," Mr. Holmes nodded. "It shall not."

"But I didn't think that the voting would be so monumental." I had gained a somewhat greater interest and knowledge in politics over the past few years, but the upcoming vote had not struck me as especially important.

"It's not. Despite being hotly debated by both parties, the movement offered is almost benign in its significance, except for one obscure clause that would allow Moran to get a foothold into a certain market. It's a convoluted and unlikely scheme to the naked eye, until one unravels the trappings surrounding it and it becomes absurdly simple."

I tapped my fingers on the desk. "But why Urswick? I would think that Moran would choose an member of parliament with a greater paternal affection, and there are many devoted fathers in the House of Lords with comparable influence. And if this kidnapping takes place and no ransom is announced—for I assume Moran would keep his demands secret between Urswick and himself—would not suspicions of some sort arise?"

"I cannot explain Moran's reasoning in his choice of victim, unless Urswick's very indifference is what he sees as a boon, as well as his widower status. An emotional mother could cause problems and interfere." His eyes were filled with seriousness. "I predict that Moran's plan would be to make it appear that Miss Urswick has died, thereby satisfying the public's curiosities."

"Only," I finished, "to send some sort of proof of her continued existence to Lord Urswick, along with his demands?"

"Exactly."

I bit my lip and stared at my bookshelf, my mind a million miles away from the room as I thought.

"How many are staying through the holiday?" Mr. Holmes inquired.

I closed my eyes and counted in my head. "Not counting myself? Five: Georgie, Rosalie, Natasha, Mr. Fredericks, and one maid, Martha."

"Six."

I opened my eyes. "Who—oh, of course. I trust you've already come up with a suitable persona to don?"

"I have a few ideas. You would not, perhaps, be averse to your cousin visiting you over the holidays?"

"I don't have a cousin," I said darkly, "except one horrifically flirtatious ninny I haven't seen in years."

"His named wouldn't happen to be Jarvis Hunter, would it?"

I shut my eyes again for a moment. "Oh, no."

"Yes, you'll find that Jarvis has been called away quite suddenly and secretly to Italy, leaving me free for my impersonation."

I didn't like thinking about the fact that this had all been planned before I'd even acquiesced to his request. Mycroft Holmes had evidently dug far enough into my past to dredge up this cousin (Not that I was surprised—given my work, I had supposed that he'd thoroughly checked my background. But still, speculating about it and _knowing_ that he had were two very different things.) and then spirited him away so Holmes could masquerade himself as my relative.

I decided to ignore my misgivings: Georgie's life was at stake, and this was not the moment to berate the Holmes brothers for their methods. "When do you believe Moran will make his move?"

"After the rest of the students and staff have left for the holidays. Crowds can be an advantage in abduction situations, but not here. With the teachers and students, she's not often alone, and the more people there are, the more variables there are to account for."

I nodded, as his words made sense. "I'll make sure she doesn't sleep alone— I can move her in with the other two girls."

He stayed for another half hour before he left, both of us deep in the details of our emerging plan of attack and protection. And while I wanted to pretend my attitude stemmed from nothing more than a desire to protect Georgie, I was more than suspicious that the pounding of my heartbeat was due to anticipation of the game ahead of us.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Miss Hunter?"

"Yes, Natasha." I motioned for the girl to come into my office and offered her a chair. "As you've noticed, our numbers over the holiday season are even fewer than usual. I know that you were probably looking forward to getting your room to yourself for a little while with Edith gone, but I've decided to put all three of you girls in the same room this winter, just until January and the other girls return."

If Natasha was disappointed, she didn't betray any emotion. "I understand, Miss Hunter."

I nodded. "For that I am grateful. I know both Rosalie and Georgie can be a bit—ah— _trying_ at times. But that is part of the reason I wish for them to stay with you. You're a good girl, Natasha, and level-headed. If you can be a good example to them…" I let my voice trail off and smiled. "I am proud of all you've accomplished."

"Thank you, Miss Hunter." She hesitated, and I saw that she wished to say something more.

"Do you have a question?" I asked.

"I was just wondering if you've thought about what will happen to me after graduation," she said, with a bit of unsureness.

I understood. Like myself, Natasha was an unmarried girl alone in the world—a dangerous and precarious situation to be in. I had always comforted myself with the fact that Natasha was intelligent, with a generous amount of common sense. But those two advantages were not always sufficient to live on, especially when one's morality was as strict and strong as Natasha's.

"I have been thinking upon it. There are a few governess options, and your skills are such that I am sure we could find you employment." My words sounded weak to my own ears, non-helpful and non-committal, but Natasha nodded.

"Thank you, Miss."

I excused her and she left, leaving me alone. I glanced at my timepiece. Holmes and I had arranged that he would arrive sometime today, though I was under strict orders not act as though I was aware of it. "Cousin Jarvis" would be making a surprise (and not altogether welcome) visit, and the believability of our plan depended upon my skills of acting surprised at his appearance. But other doubts also assaulted me: I'd been suspicious of my staff ever since Mr. Holmes's visit. Some had been working for me for years, but Miss Henty? She'd only been employed six months. Was she planted there by Moran? And the new groundskeeper—he'd only been with us a matter of weeks. But I reminded myself that both of them were gone for the holidays. Only Mr. Fredericks and Martha remained. I heard wheels upon the gravel outside and stood up. _Holmes_.

Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself for the task ahead. By the time I reached the foyer, Mr. Fredericks was letting a tall, thin man bundled up from the cold in through the door. All three girls were observing this from the staircase steps, looking at the guest curiously.

He began to unwrap his scarf when he caught sight of me. "Cousin Violet!" He exclaimed, and loped up to give me a kiss on the cheek. I didn't have to act; I looked at him in startled embarrassment.

"Jarvis!" I said, looking uneasily at the girls. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"It's Christmas, cousin! Time for familial affection and reunions and all that." He looked at the girls. "And who might these lovely young ladies be?"

I was later to hear from Dr. Watson's stories just how convincing the acts of Sherlock Holmes could be, but at that moment seeing this attitude from him was so completely foreign and unexpected—I hadn't actually expected him to act _quite_ so much like my cousin—that I couldn't hide how uncomfortable I felt. In retrospect, this was probably a good thing, as it gave a reality to my performance.

"These are my students," I said, looking at him warningly. "Miss Prior, Miss Macaulay, and Miss Urswick. Girls, my cousin, Jarvis Hunter." I introduced him begrudgingly.

"Charmed" He bowed elegantly and kissed each girls hand in turn. Natasha looked at him skeptically, Georgie with childish pleasure, and Rosalie with—well, we won't speak of Rosalie. She had no business attempting to flirt with a man over twice her age, no matter how charming.

I cleared my throat. "That's enough, Jarvis. Girls, go back to your studies."

"But Miss Hunter—" Georgie began.

I raised my brow—a look all three girls knew well—and they obeyed.

I spun on my heel to face the detective, heartily aware of the girls, probably eavesdropping above us, and my two remaining servants, not far away. "Jarvis Hunter!" I scolded. "What are you doing here? Most guests, relatives or not, send word of their intentions!"

"Why, Violet!" He looked wounded, and I tried not to show the other jolt I felt—that of my first name. My Christian name had always been underused due to my lack of relations and close friends, and for some foolish reason I hadn't expected to ever hear it again after Mary's death. Hearing it now gave me a ridiculous surge of pleasure, which I fought to conceal. However, Holmes—that was, Jarvis—continued to speak.

"I thought you'd be pleased to see me? Why, it's been an age! Six years, isn't it?"

"Seven," I corrected, instinctively knowing Holmes already knew that. I folded my arms. "Jarvis, you can't stay here. This is a girls' school, for heaven's sake. What would the parents say if I knew they'd let a man stay in the same house as their daughters? It's completely unacceptable."

We hadn't gone over this in our previous discussions, and Holmes looked momentarily surprised, like I had intended. I felt a gush of satisfaction about it.

"Well, I—"

"You can stay in the groundskeepers quarters with Mr. Fredericks, I suppose." A sigh accompanied my concession and I shook my head. "You always were impulsive, cousin."

"And you far too straitlaced." He patted my shoulder before walking past me. "And this is your school? Why, you've done well for yourself, Violet old girl." He grinned. "Care to give me a tour?"

And thus our charade began.

* * *

 _I do apologize for my somewhat sketchy and incomplete knowledge of British government and politics; I tried to be as vague as possible but if I'm hopelessly wrong in anything I said, I am sorry!_


	4. Chapter 4

_I know, I know- I haven't been on here in months! For that I apologize. Hopefully the concluding chapters of this story won't take so long in coming. I do hope you enjoy this one!_

 _ **Chapter Four**_

The next morning I found all three girls gathered around a small volume, intently flipping through pages. A small bouquet was on the table. In a way, I enjoyed my small group. One aspect of governess-ing that I missed was the close relationship I developed with my charges, something that was impossible to keep among a large school of students. I interestedly asked the girls what was so engrossing.

"A village boy sent Natasha flowers!" Georgie exclaimed. "We're looking up what they mean."

"Ah," I said, eyeing the bouquet. "Cyclamen. Isn't that—"

"Resignation and goodbye," Natasha said, looking up. At my questioning glace, she sighed and responded, "I met Nathaniel in the market the other day. He talked to me, and well…" her voice trailed off. "I told him I didn't care for him that way. I suppose this means he has taken it…well?" She looked at me unsurely.

"I don't have much to say on the subject," I admitted, taking up the flowers and inspecting them. "The hearts of men remain a mystery to me."

"Do men even have hearts?" Georgie asked curiously. "No one ever talks about them."

" 'Under love's heavy burden do I sink,' " a voice behind us quoted.

We all spun around.

"William Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_ , I believe. Is that correct, schoolmarm?"

"I believe so." I said, looking warily at the man whose knowledge of literature was supposed to be considered 'nil.'

"I'd forgotten about Shakespeare," Rosalie said. "He did speak of love often, didn't he? For a man, anyways."

"You'll find that men have always done so," my "cousin" continued. "So long as they have had hearts."

Rosalie glanced at him coquettishly. "So there is hope for us women?"

"Not always," he said, a statement not so cryptic considering the man's occupation.

* * *

That night I read aloud a chapter from Charles Dicken's _A Christmas Carol_ to the girls by the fireplace, and then settled down with a cup of tea. Natasha and Rosalie had taken out a chessboard, Holmes had a newspaper, and Georgie was reading.

I glanced up, only to have a bit of white catch my eye. A paper, larger than a book page, was poking out from between the covers of Georgie's book.

"Georgie," I said, suspicion accosting me. "What are you reading?" She had a mania for finding unsuitable reading material—the gorier and more outrageous, the better. Vampires were an especial attraction.

Georgie's red face told me all, even if Rosalie hadn't. Rosalie poked her head over Georgie's shoulder. "Oh, Georgie, not one of the awful mysteries! Miss Hunter, Georgie's reading _sensational literature_!"

I sighed. "Hand it to Rosalie, Georgie," I said and picked up my teacup.

"But I want to know what happens!" Georgie complained. "And it's not so very bad."

"What is it this time?" I asked doubtfully as I took a sip of my tea.

"Just a Sherlock Holmes mystery. The one with that awful little boy and the cockroaches."

I choked violently on my tea. Holmes half-rose from his chair as if to assist, and Natasha ran to my side. I waved them away enthusiastically, still unable to talk as I sputtered. "I'm fine," I finally managed. "Just went down the wrong way." I hit my chest with my fist a few times and cleared my throat. My eyes went to Holmes; he betrayed nothing.

"Miss Hunter-" Rosalie began.

I shook my head. "Hand it to me, Georgie," I tried to say sternly, but my eyes were red and watery, and I knew I had lost any semblance of authority for the moment.

Georgie nevertheless obediently (if reluctantly) gave me the issue, and I stuffed it under a Latin grammar resting on the table. "It's time to retire for the night, girls." As soon as they left, I let out a sigh of relief. Holmes and I sat silently for a few moments, neither of us intending to make conversation. I, due to embarrassment and awkwardness, and he due to- well, I had no idea about his reasoning. Finally, Holmes slipped the Strand issue out from underneath the Grammar.

"My friend does have a flair for romanticizing our experiences, I'm afraid." Holmes said as he glanced through the story, his eyebrows rising at some points and furrowing at others.

"But he does have a way with words," I said. "They are entertaining."

Holmes frowned again, but I knew it was from my words rather than the story before him.

"But it must be inconvenient," I said, complacently taking up a ball of yarn and some knitting needles, "to have your life laid out for the entertainment of the masses." A thought struck me, and I looked at him. "Perhaps a reason to remain anonymous for a time? To take up a new identity?"

Now Holmes did look at me. "I would never attempt to do what I have for so light a reason, Miss Hunter."

"I never said you did," I replied, though the seriousness of his eyes rattled me. "I was only perhaps implying that it was why you _continue_ to do so."

We stared at each other for a few moments, each weighing the other, until finally he nodded. "You are wrong, but your reasoning does not lack logic."

"But I am still wrong?"

"Watson tended to do the same. His reasoning was never overtly irrational, but he never took into account all of the facts. He could never _see_ all of the facts."

"Yet you refer to him in the past tense. _He_ is not the one considered dead," I reminded him. I didn't give him a chance to respond but instead continued, "What did I miss?"

"Moran. You forgot—however momentarily—that my supposed death is the greatest asset I have in dismantling Moriarty's empire of criminal activity."

"Speaking of Moriarty and Moran, I haven't yet seen anything suspicious, but I have much less experience in the matter than you do."

"Haven't seen anything-" he started, almost surprised, and then a slight look of disappointment came to his eyes. "I see," he said, and I felt that I had let him down for some reason. Yet as I went over the events of the past day, I could not remember anything that might have been out of the ordinary. What had he seen that I had missed?

"I believe, Miss Hunter, that tomorrow evening will find ourselves most occupied. I would plan to remain ready well into the night."

"What is going to happen?"

"I couldn't say."

I set my jaw, my own feelings and good sense warring. I was not Doctor Watson, who could plunge headfirst into danger without knowing Holmes's plan. Yet I also knew that I lacked the knowledge of the man before me. I had no doubt that he knew exactly what he was doing, and perhaps he had good reason for not sharing his plan with me. However, I was not particularly pleased with the fact. I trusted him, but I did not like doing so blindly.

"I will, then." I set my knitting aside and rose. "However, I shall rest well tonight. I shall see you tomorrow, Mr. Holmes."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter Five**_

The day seemed as though it couldn't decide whether to pass quickly or slowly. One second the clock seemed to crawl, the next moment I'd look up to find that hours had passed by. Evening finally came, however, and I sent the girls straight to bed. Though Mr. Holmes had told me to retire to my bedroom no differently than I normally did, my routine once inside the confines of the room was anything but typical. I was wearing a black skirt and dark shirtwaist, rather than my nightgown. I usually closed my curtains each night, so I was thankful there was nothing to alter there. With my light off, no one could see my pacing through the window.

I heard the clock strike ten and lay on my bed with my head against the pillows. Every instinct in me was telling me to sprint into the girls' room and guard Georgie like a lioness. As it was, "Cousin Jarvis" had told me in no uncertain terms to stay in my room until he gave the signal. Sleep seemed an unattainable thing, but I must have dozed off because I found myself starting when I heard the sounds of my doorknob clicking. I jumped up only to see a dark shadow that could belong to no one but Mr. Holmes. I tried not to let my sigh of relief heave too loudly.

"There's a figure in the garden," he said quietly. "Male in his late twenties, strongly built, most likely works as a farmhand."

"Anyone else?"

"An older one, leaner. But strong."

I nodded. "We should—" I was interrupted by the sound of a feminine scream, coming from the direction of the front hall. My heart stopped for a split moment and I pushed past Holmes. The two of us flew down the stairs. I almost ran over Rosalie, who was standing at the bottom of the staircase, wrapped in a cloak.

"Rosalie Macaulay, what on _earth_ —?"

She turned to look at me, her face white. She pointed and for the first time, I noticed a dark bundle at her feet. Holmes was already down next to it.

"I tripped over him. I—I—" she broke down and began to weep.

"What's going on?" Natasha appeared at the top of the stairs with a robe wrapped around her nightgown. She came down closer to us in curiosity.

Mr. Holmes flipped the bundle over and I found myself staring into the eyes of a stranger, several days dead. "Oh." I turned away, for the first time noting the smell. I turned Rosalie to me, noticing that she was fully clothed. "Rosie, what are you wearing?"

"It's Gerald Harper," Holmes said, and I turned back to look at him. "He went missing last week near Cambridge."

"But why is he here?" Natasha asked in horror.

My stomach dropped. "Where's Georgie?"

Holmes was halfway up the stairs before I'd finished my words. I caught up to him just in time to hear him swear, for which I normally would have scolded. But we were both staring into an empty chamber, and Georgie was nowhere to be seen.

"How?" I asked helplessly. "How did they know Rosalie would come down and find him? How did they _know_?"

We both stared at each other for a single moment, and then I bellowed, "Rosalie!" My skirts swished as I clamored out of the hall. Natasha was holding Rosalie at the top of the stairs. The younger girl was still crying, but I had no time for sympathy. "Rosie, what were you doing? I need to know." I pulled her away from Natasha and stared into her eyes.

"I was just—I was just going to meet him." She wouldn't look at me.

"Meet who?"

She glanced at me awkwardly.

"Rosalie, Georgie's been kidnapped! Now tell me!" I heard both girls' quick intake of breath, and Rosalie mumbled out, "I was supposed to meet Nathaniel in the garden."

"Nathaniel? _Natasha's_ Nathaniel?"

"He's not mine," Natasha muttered, as Rosalie nodded and started to sob again.

I turned around, but Holmes was nowhere. "Where is that man?" I asked in frustration.

"Maybe he went for the police?" Natasha suggested.

The police. I had completely forgotten that they even existed. I also realized Holmes hadn't followed me out of the bedroom, and he was more likely scouring the place for my missing student than he was rushing to the authorities. The men who had taken Georgie—whoever they were—couldn't have gone far.

"Natasha, I can't explain everything right now, but Georgie's in danger. Take Rosalie to my room and lock yourselves in there, all right?"

"But what about the man?" she asked in concern.

"Don't worry yourself about him. He's past saving, but Georgie's not." I pushed both girls away from me. "Quickly, now!"

I ran back to Georgie's room. The window was open, but when I looked out I didn't see Mr. Holmes. I frowned and turned on the lamp on the table before looking around. A minute of examination told me why I hadn't seen Holmes outside. A chloroform-drenched handkerchief by the bed; a spot of dirt on the doorframe.

 _The men hadn't left the house._

I swallowed and turned to face the chamber door. The school was in an old manor house— large, winding, and easy to get lost in. I had imaginings of a hand snaking up behind me and knocking me out with a wooden club. With this in mind, I kept my back to the wall while sliding down the hall in the opposite direction of the stairs. There was a servant's staircase that way, and I knew it would have been impossible for anyone to pass by in the other direction while we had been on the stairs. I kept silent, and I heard nothing. Georgie was a heavy sleeper, and probably hadn't heard Rosalie's scream. Natasha would have, however, and immediately left to investigate. But for someone to know that, they would have to have intimate knowledge of the school and students. There _had_ been a spy, and they'd probably been inside the school much longer than I'd suspected. And had someone been spying on Rosalie, or had Nathaniel been a part of the scheme? He probably had, given that he'd paid his attentions to Natasha first. When that didn't work, he'd gone on to Rosalie.

I closed my eyes and prayed. Nothing elaborate, just a simple, _God, help!_

I came to a corner and maneuvered around in, swinging right into Holmes's chest.

" _Omph_ -"I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from exclaiming, but he took my arm and dragged me a few paces away.

"They're in the basement," he whispered.

"The basement?" I asked in disbelief. "Why?"

"I think there may be some sort of a secret passage, but it's also possible they assumed we'd run straight to the police and search the countryside."

"They shouldn't have gotten so dirty in the process, then," I said disparagingly, thinking of the dirt smudged in the girls' room. Holmes nodded in approval at my reasoning. "Do you think they mean to wait it out until it's safe?" I asked.

"I would think it would be too much of a risk. There must be another way out."

"It's an old house," I said. "It's more likely than not that there are priest's holes here, anyway. The previous owners were Catholics during Elizabeth's reign." I looked around. "We need someone to get the police."

"Send one of the girls."

I bit my lip, worried at the thought. "I'll see." It took only a matter of mere seconds to let myself into my room with my key.

"Miss Hunter?"

"Yes, it's me. Nat, I'm going to need you to run into town and get the police." I noticed she had thrown on an old dress so that she was no longer in her nightgown. "The men who took Georgie are still in the house, and Hol-Jarvis and I are going after her, but we need the police. Can you do that?"

She nodded quickly.

"I want to come too," Rosalie said shakily. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have tried to sneak out!"

"It's not your fault, Rosalie. They would have found a way to snatch her anyway."

"She can come with me," Natasha quickly said. "Two heads are always better than one."

"All right, then. Hurry, now!" I sent the girls running out the door, hoping they wouldn't run into trouble. All my life I'd been charged with protecting children, and I'd just sent two young girls to go out at night with kidnappers and criminals on the loose. It made me feel sick. I ran back to Holmes.

"Can you use this?" He slipped me a revolver. I winced at the thought. "I can try."

"I wish Watson was here," he muttered.

"Thanks," I said dryly. He ignored my words and motioned for me to follow him down the hall. I hoped I didn't have to use the gun; I wasn't afraid of hurting anyone who might harm Georgie, but I didn't wish to hit her by accident. I had no experience with firearms.

The door to the basement was closed, and I knew from experience that it was old and creaky. "They're going to hear the door open," I whispered.

He nodded but grasped the handle anyway. I closed my eyes in worry as he shoved it open. I knew it wasn't _that_ loud, but it seemed like cannon fire in the stillness of night. Holmes went down first, and I waited a few minutes before following.

I entered an empty room.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

I gently made my way deeper into the basement. There was a single lamp lit in the corner, and it cast ominous shadows. I didn't see anyone, friend or foe. "Holmes?" I whispered.

"Over here." I saw the top of a head behind a barrel, and then the rest of him rose.

I sighed in relief. "Did you find anything?"

He tapped the wall. "There's a door here, somewhere. Have you any idea where the passage might lead out?"

I closed my eyes and tried to picture the estate, and which direction we were in relation to it. "If the passage goes straight, it will end somewhere in the forest—I think. No, I'm positive." I nodded in confidence. "The woods."

He ran his finger over the wall before taking up the lantern and leading me out up the stairs and outside.

As we ran past the gardener's cottage it struck me that I hadn't seen Mr. Fredericks or Martha at all during this wretched night. I was to later find out that Fredericks had been drugged; Martha, in the servant's quarters, claimed she slept through the entire night and never heard a thing. I had a hard time forgiving her for that.

We took to the backyard, where I stood facing the house from about where the basement passage would have begun. If it _did_ go straight, it led right into the woods. Neither Holmes nor myself carried any lamp, lest we give away our position, and the slim sliver of moon granted us very little light.

"Stay behind me," he whispered.

Struggling between annoyance and appreciation for his protection, I peeked around his shoulder once or twice but mostly kept watch at our backs. We entered into the forest and looked around for any sign of Georgie and her kidnappers. I grew less cautious the longer our search took, and both of us split up, though we stayed within sight of each other.

"There's nothing here," he said, not bothering to whisper.

I agreed. The girls weren't allowed to explore back in this area, and as a result the brush had been free to grow. I couldn't find any evidence of it having been trampled down.

"Either the passage came out somewhere else, or the door led to a hidden room," Holmes finally said and we met back at the front of the woods.

"What do you think?"

"We should both hope it's a room," he said. "If the passage let out somewhere else, they're long gone by now."

I winced and we both made our way back to the manor. I knew we were going to open the hidden door, and I was afraid that we wouldn't have very much leverage over our villains. We had a slight chance of surprising them, but I didn't know if our searching of the basement—and our knowledge of the hideaway—had been overheard.

But even that was better than the thought that they'd escaped.

Back in the basement, Holmes's hands moved swiftly over the stone wall, and I stood next to him and followed suit in his search. I was almost thankful for the darkness, as I had to focus solely on touch; there were no distractions. We remained as quiet as we could, and as my fingers moved over the rough stone, I felt something metal touch my nail. I investigated and found a small lever.

I pulled it.

The door swung open accompanied by the sound of a gunshot. I dove down and Holmes leapt over me. I heard the sounds of a struggle and a smothered cry; the inside of the cavernous hole was pitch black. I kept to the floor and prayed that a stray bullet wouldn't find me; I'd heard another shot, and then a clanging that I hoped was the gun hitting the floor. I sensed bodies in the darkness and pounced. I found myself clutching a handful of Georgie's nightgown (with her in it) in one hand and a fist of a man's shirt in the other. He wrenched away and swore. In the confusion, I kicked the man's legs, grabbed hold of Georgie, and pulled her out into the basement with all of my might. We both landed with a thud on the hard floor. She was gagged around the mouth, and, still disoriented from the chloroform, struggled to remove it. I heard the sound of hurried, heavy footfalls upstairs, and yelled, "Down here!" as I wrenched the rag from her mouth. She fell into me, shaking but silent.

The footsteps grew louder, and the local police force stormed into the basement and into the hidden room. I dragged Georgie away from the door and waited. It didn't take long for Mr. Holmes to reappear, disheveled and torn, with a cut on his face and a black eye. I hoped the other man looked worse.

"I trust Miss Urswick is all right?"

"I think so." I looked back at Georgie. "Are you all right, Georgie? Did they hurt you?"

"No, ma'am." She shook her head vigorously, but clung to me. The other girls saw Georgie in my arms and ran to us. I found myself thus embraced by all three of my students.

"What happened to you, Mr. Hunter?" Rosalie asked in concern. "Are you badly hurt?"

"It's nothing I haven't experienced before, Miss Macaulay."

She looked at him with adoring eyes and I cleared my throat. "I believe all three of you need to get to bed. It's been quite an ordeal, but the police can handle the rest." I looked to Holmes, hoping he would understand that I was needed with my students. He would have to deal with the police.

"Miss Hunter is right," he said.

"Good, then." I rose to my feet. "Let's all go back to bed."

"Could you stay with us, Miss Hunter?" Georgie asked in a small voice, so rare for her. "I don't want to be alone."

My heart broke at enthusiastic, troublemaking Georgie sounding so timid. I kissed the top of her head. "Of course, dear." At that moment Georgie needed a mother, not a schoolmarm, even if I considered myself unqualified for that role.

I led the girls back up the stairs, but spared a backward glance at Holmes. He nodded at me in satisfied approval, and I couldn't help but smile. We had won.

* * *

Holmes left three days later. The kidnappers were obviously of no connection to Moran, and his name never once came up by the police in the days that followed. Once the vote in parliament was passed (completely uneventfully, I might add) there was no need for Holmes's presence. I had to admit I was sorry to see him go.

But go he did. And it must be said that I, sadly, never expected to see him again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Epilogue**

 _Three months later_

It had been difficult to leave my students, now knowing that even what seemed to be the safest of places wasn't always. But I had business in London, some of it of a confidential nature, and I was not entirely loathe to take a brief holiday from my duties. I knew I couldn't hover over my girls forever, and the trip to the city was one of my first steps in leaving since the incident. My trip was quiet, and on my last day in London I visited the cemetery, bringing with me a small bouquet for Mary.

When I arrived, I was surprised to find that there were flowers on the grave already. What's more, they were unfamiliar: Dr. Watson always left red roses; I preferred peonies and baby's breath. I didn't think anyone else bothered to leave flowers on dear Mary's grave. I bent down and touched the petal of a hyacinth, collected with tulips and a single white rose. An apology bouquet.

I straightened and looked around, noting a tall, lanky shadow resting silently by a tree, his back towards me.

I set down my flowers on the damp earth before quietly drawing up beside him. "So you _do_ understand the language of flowers. I shall have to tell Rosalie."

He continued to stare straight ahead while he silently handed me the slim volume than normally resided in the parlor of the school. "I believe this is yours."

I shook my head. "A detective who steals. What a paradox." I took the flower book and slipped it under my arm. We stood there for several moments, the silence almost uncomfortable, but not quite.

"I've planned to see Watson tomorrow," he finally said. "He still doesn't know, but I stopped by Baker Street this morning and gave poor Mrs. Hudson a heart attack. I'm afraid I didn't exactly take into account her age when I sprung myself upon her. I had no idea she would be so affected."

I gave an exasperated laugh. "Oh, Mr. Holmes." For someone so observant he could be so blind. "Coming back from the dead is _not_ an everyday occurrence. Perhaps a warning would have been wise."

"Well, I thought you took it rather well."

I smiled, but another momentary silence threatened until I said, "I do want to thank you. Without you Georgie would have been in even greater danger, and she owes you her life, whether or not she knows it."

"It's I who should be thanking you, Miss Hunter. You played your part superbly."

"This is high praise indeed. I will miss my dear cousin Jarvis. He made things so interesting."

I held out my hand, and he shook it. "Will we see each other again, do you think?" I hadn't thought so before now, but his presence at the graveyard could be no coincidence. Holmes never left things to chance.

"Who knows?" he tipped his hat to me as we both left in opposite directions. "But I think it entirely possible."

I smiled to myself and hoped.

* * *

 _I hoped you enjoyed this one! I don't have any plans for a sequel to this—I think Violet's story is pretty well wrapped up—but I couldn't quite help myself from leaving the possibility open. I did think (a little bit) about putting a bit of romance in there between Violet and Holmes, but I always feel strange giving Holmes a love interest, so I couldn't quite get myself to do it! And I admit we have far too few stories about male/female friendships, anyway :) As for the ending, I've had this epilogue written for a while now, but due to responsibilities I didn't have as much time as I would have liked to work on the last chapter, and I knew if I didn't do it now I probably wouldn't be able to get back to it for months. So I apologize if it seems a bit rushed. Thank you guys for the kind comments (it kept me writing!) and thanks for reading!_


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